Chasing God and Penning What I Find

Scene One: I walk around with a last name full of syllables. It uncomfortably sits in peoples mouth’s like something sharp. My name isn’t palatable, doesn’t slide on the tongue like something silky and exotic. It sticks and pokes–I can see it on their faces when they hesitantly spit it out. “Martin?…Moore?…O..Ok…um?” In my haste, I run to catch my name before it falls discarded to the floor.

“It’s Okonkwo. My name is Okonkwo. Present! No, it’s fine. You can sound it out, try it with me! O-kon-kwo.”

I have been Okinawa. Okonokwo. Okeydoke, when they thought they were being funny. I am still, after nearly 32 years, amazed when people say my name properly without my help.

Scene Two: High School, 11th grade English–full of people two sets of school days away from legalized adulthood. She walks to the front of the room, olive-toned and slight. She says, “my name is Ms. Tashjian. For this class, you may refer to me as Ms. T if it is easier for you to remember. Never one back down from a language related challenge, I pronounce it in the mirror, determined to get it correct. I will not be like the others. I will not take the easy way out. Tash. Jee. Ahn. Tashjian. I got this. Simultaneously as I push my tongue to a new plane, one of saffron and turmeric, I slip that little nugget away for later. I can make my name taste better by presenting it as an appetizer, not an entree. I can make it–me–palatable.

Scene Three: Non J JCC employee can pray in Hebrew. Black girl sounds good pronouncing the ch in Pinchas and lechem and the zh in Yitzhak. No, you won’t be Pinny and Yitzy. We still stumble over Okonkwo, though.

Scene Four: At work, I pull out the appetizer trick before the school year even starts–give them a taste. Stephanie Okonkwo becomes Ms. O, and before my eyes I watch the tension leave shoulders when they realize that the jawbreaker of a name has softened into something that they can manipulate with their tongue. We feel the air change–the same shift that causes Ikenna to become I.K. on a game show, Ifeoluwa to go by Luvvie and why Firoozeh wanted to become Julie in Funny In Farsi. It feels nice–I even adopt a cheesy little chant: “go for O!” when they call me on the radio. It is funny–until it isn’t. Until kids make African jokes–something that still stings even though my relationship with my diasporic-ness is complicated at best. Until people ask what the O stands for, and wrinkle their nose when I tell them–“yeah, I’ma stick to O”. Why did I give them an easy way out? Until I notice the ease with which people say the things that they want…to say. I resolve to make people say it next school year. Call me by my name in all of it’s different, jollof and egusi glory.

Scene Five: Camp begins, and I notice offhandedly that Olamide is listed as an intern. I hear everyone refer to her as “Ola-ME-day“. Then, completely by accident, I call her name one day with a task attached:

“O-LA-mih-day, can you bring me the water bottles to label please?”

Belatedly, I recognize my mistake:

“Oh, I am sorry, did I say your name incorrectly? Please tell me if I am.”

” “No”, she says, “You actually said it right. It’s just easier for people here to call me Ola-ME-day, so I just go with it.”

“What does your family call you at home, though?’

“O-LA-mih-day.”

“Oh, ok.”

Sis hasn’t learned yet to make them get it right, that your name is your identifier, your identity, your birthright, your legacy. Olamide means “my wealth has arrived.” Ola-ME-day means “my comfort is more important.” Sis needs to stand her ground. Sis is me. I am sis.

First off, you know what they say about the best-laid plans, right? Right?! Well that was me, last week. Had ideas for not one–but TWO posts. Set up an IG poll to decide which one to do first and everything. Then life got busy, and not only did I lose the chance to write on my normal schedule, I don’t even remember what prompted one of the titles that I had listed. Y’all forgive me–I need to start writing stuff down #notaprofessional

Anywho. I remember what prompted the other title, so here we go!

Recently, my eighth graders have been engaging in a process known as Passage Portfolio Presentations. Our school follows a curriculum known as EL, or Expeditionary Learning, and one common thread that runs among these schools is creating a space for students to share what they’ve learned in a way that is public and meaningful. At our school, that means that before eighth graders can move to the ninth grade, they must present both sixth and eighth grade work and talk about their work then, their work now, and how they both connect to how they’ll work in high school. This is a very big deal. Their Transitions teachers start preparing with them around February, completing reflections weekly for each subject and selecting work to represent those two subjects. The level of commitment and engagement varies, because some take the process seriously and others do not, but what (should) emerge(s) is a portfolio of work and reflective thinking that these kids basically defend–to family, administration, faculty–and to ensure an unbiased audience—complete strangers.

I’ve sat in 8 of these presentations so far, and though I thought I’d be an emotional wreck, I was actually far too amazed by them and nervous FOR them to cry. These kids are leaving me in 11 school days (hopefully–some of them are playing fast and loose with this promotion thing), and to compare what I see in front of me–these professionally dressed, articulate, composed and self aware eighth graders–with the rowdy, unpredictable, schoolwork-averse sixth graders that they were (and honestly still behave like sometimes) blows all the vestiges of my mind.

But this blog post isn’t about reflections, or passages, or panelists, per se…though it did come to mind sitting in one.

One of the last PPPs that I sat in was for my crew member A. This is her below, with identifying features concealed, since one can’t be too sure about you internet folks, sometimes:

A little about A: She is a consistently excellent student. She is driven, focused, does her work, (mostly) stays far away from the drama and silliness that can be middle school aged girls, is goal oriented, and has a beautiful smile. She is in my Crew, and sometimes I think that I haven’t done the best by her that I could…and I regret that.

You may wonder why I feel that way. I am a darn good Crew leader–consistent, generous, available. It is something that I am pretty proud of, because Lord knows it ain’t easy. So why would I think that I have psuedo-failed A? It is because a lot of my Crew members require a…heavier touch…than A does. Being consistently excellent, I don’t need to confer with her teachers about her work nearly as often to make sure that it is being done, and being done correctly. Being consistently excellent, I don’t have to use up all my good daytime minutes (joke) to call her mother and beg, plead, wail, gnash my teeth, bargain, bribe or lowkey threaten her to connect with me and gather her child up. Being consistently excellent, I don’t have to hear her name ad infinitum over my walkie talkie or see it in my inbox because she has gotten into yet another altercation of her own creation with another kid. Being consistently excellent, A does her work–her lowest grade right now is a 3.2 on a 4.0 scale. That’s her LOWEST. She rolls with a great group of similarly focused girls. She has her sights set on the competitive high school that she got into. I never stopped to think about whether she truly feels like she has a school mom like some of the others do until recently. My sappy reflectiveness as this process ends has me overthinking a bit and wondering if she ever felt let down when I popped my head into one of her classes–but not to see her, but to G-check another Crew member who I’d just received a behavior write-up for minutes beforehand. I wonder if she ever felt discarded when I did grade check ins on Fridays and didn’t even bother to look hers up, knowing instinctively that they’d be solid? I certainly hope not.

That was never my intent, but I know full well the slight resentment that comes from doing well for so long that people assume that you always will, and don’t stop to pluck and give you the flowers that you DESERVE for doing the damn thing (yeah, I said it. Fight me.) Who don’t even stop running and tugging the recalcitrant long enough to believe you when you say that being excellent is an exhausting job sometimes, and frankly you are sick of it…but you won’t stop because it is what is expected. Who understand you when you say that you still need your flowers, even if it’s the fourth bouquet this week, because it will always be easier to sit on your porch than it will be to go out at sunrise and harvest what you’ve planted. We sow and water and sweat and harvest ultimately because we wanna eat, but the process is often arduous. Like I told her after her presentation during the questions-comments-compliments portion: “excellent people need to be told that they are excellent”.

Sean Covey, author of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, talks about giving people their flowers while they are here to appreciate them–flowers being, of course, the love/appreciation/gratitude/respect that people need to keep going. God’s Word, in 2 Samuel 2, in Ephesians 1, in 1 Corinthians 1 and more, consistently speaks of being grateful for people. At my old school, we used a socio-emotional curriculum known as Responsive Classroom, and one of my favorite of their tenets says that children flourish in a space where there is belonging, significance, and fun. (Some versions also add relevance, which I love as well). It is simple really–a kid who comes to school and feels like they are a part of the tapestry, who feels like they and what they bring to the table are vital to the success of the whole, and who has space to let their hair down and goof off will do well. But isn’t that the case for all of us? At work, at church, in our social circle, in school, wherever; we need to belong, we need to feel significant, and we need to enjoy it even on the hard days.

A deserves her flowers. She always has, and she always will. But sometimes, we (and by we, I mean me as well) get so caught up with all of the other things that need our attention that we forget to appreciate the goodness of the people in front of us.

A, I am going to spend the next 11 school days (or more, if you return after the promotion ceremony) giving you your flowers. I hope that you know just how much you bring me joy. I hope that my confidence in your success oozes from my every interaction with you. I hope that you know how 3 years of knowing you has prompted me to not only call out the excellence that I see in other behind the scenes superstars, but also to demand that recognition for myself. You see, I am excellent and deserve my flowers as well.

Anyway, while I was on my vacation last week, I was scrolling through my phone while I waited for my friend to wake up so we could carpe the diem and such, and I came across this picture:

Wait, let me backtrack.

People are really fascinated by the fact that I enjoy traveling by myself. People equate vacation with having a friend group present, and I get that… But when I list the places that I’ve been on my own, people look at me like I’m the newest exhibit in the zoo. “Why?”, They ask. “Why would you want to go to all these locations by yourself? Aren’t you scared? Isn’t that boring?” My answer is always no, and when they ask for my rationale, I talk about the Outcry Tour.

If you are unaware of what Outcry Tour is/was, it was a series of concerts put on by the creme de la creme of Contemporary Christian artists. I remember seeing this flyer 4 years ago and having what can only be described as a mini explosion of excitement. I love Christian rap; Trip Lee, Lecrae, Tedashii and the like is what cured me of my need for trap back in the day because I could have the same beats and grittiness without hearing about someone’s house being shot up. Best of both worlds! In addition, Lauren Daigle’s music had just started coming on the radio, I sang along to most of these other artists in church on a weekly basis, and I was ready.

A group of friends and I started a group chat around ticket purchasing. We vowed to wait until we all were ready so that we could sit together. Days passed, and then weeks did too as we waited for everybody to get their money together. Eventually, we saw a post put up by the producers of the Outcry Tour saying that all tickets were sold out… We hadn’t managed to get seats because we were still waiting on people. It may sound silly, it may just be a concert, but I remember being really sad at the last opportunity, especially because I had what I needed to go. The day of the concert rolled around, and I tried to stay off of social media as friends who had gotten tickets individually or in pairs posted snippets of videos and photos from their seats. I decided at that point that if there was something that I wanted to do, I was going to do it and if others want to join in, they could do so on their own time. No longer would I let waiting for people stop me from my dreams.

Fast forward to the year that I turned 30–I decided that I wanted to do something big for a milestone birthday. Normally, I am satisfied with getting a few friends together for brunch or an activity, but this particular year… I wanted to travel. I set my sights on Jamaica and decided that I would go right after school let out in June since I would be working a summer job by the time my actual birthday rolled around in mid July. There were several people who said:

“Ooh, I want to come!”

“Whaaaat, no invite?”

“What’s your flight number/where are you staying? Can I join?”

“I’m buying a ticket next week!!”

And each time, I passed the info along and waited to see the result. Do you know what the result was?

Me. In Jamaica. Alone. And I discovered that I LOVED every bit of the solitude.

Since then, I’ve intentionally sought out places to travel on my own. If people come with me, that is great too–traveling alone can present some logistical headaches that are made easier by having others around–but the difference is that I’m not waiting.

This isn’t just about the planes and the trips for me, though. It’s about the idea of being enough. Of enjoying my own company. Of following my passions without waiting for the permission of other people. In a world where a lot of my friends are married/in relationships, I have to be intentional about beating back those thoughts of “am I not good enough for somebody?” Traveling solo, exploring the world on my own reminds me of my resilience and my enough-ness.

That doesn’t mean that people aren’t welcome to come with though. One of my close friends came to New Orleans with me last week

and we had a blast. We explored the city, ate ridiculous amounts of good Southern cooking and played endless Uno tournaments. What it does mean, though, is that both on trips and in life, I plan to remember the words of Jamila Woods:

“My cup is full up, what I got is enoughNobody completes me, don’t mess with my love…”

Earlier this week, while on vacation, I rolled over and grabbed my phone to find that the young lady that I used to mentor had sent me a DM. We started to chat, and the conversation turned to her significant other, which she was creating some distance from for a handful of reasons but has chosen to reconcile with. I informed her that it was hard for me to give her unbiased answers to the questions she was asking–I don’t care for him because of the ways he has treated her in the past and I probably won’t like him until I see an intentional change in his character. Basically, don’t ask me no questions, and I won’t tell you no lies, as the old folk used to say.

But anywho. My parting advice to this young lady before I got started with my vacation plans for the day was “sit down and make a list”.

A few years ago, someone that I know told me that she had an actual list written down with qualities of the person that she wanted to be with. Within that list, she’d checked off non-negotiables as well as things that she would really love him to have but could go without. Inspired, I made a list that night that is on my phone to this day. Her list had led her to marriage–mine has not, but it serves as an excellent litmus test when meeting new people. When you’ve taken the time to write down that you want to spend your life with someone who has stable employment, it’s a lot harder to reason with yourself when you fall head over heels in l…ove (😂) with someone who plays guitar like an angel but busks on the boardwalk downtown. You took the time to write it down, so it must be important. The Bible talks about writing a vision down on tablets so that it someone can take it and run with it. (Habakkuk 2:2-3)

Having the list also provides a editable definition of who we think we want. With the last person I dated, he checked off most of what I had written down–he loved God, used his talents for the kingdom, loved his family, was an active and present father (note: I’m not specifically seeking men with kids, but as the child of a father who to this day is absent more than anything else, I refuse to be with someone who isn’t taking care of their kids. I don’t understand how deadbeat dads have girlfriends.). And on and on—but he was also non-communicative. He wasn’t consistent. He didn’t pursue hard conversations, particularly about us. And he let his preconceived notions of “what women need” direct his behavior instead of checking with me. So now, I have new things to add.

As you can see, the conversation ended with me having an epiphany of my own. 2019 has been a difficult year for friends, over here. Almost every month, I’ve found myself rocked by issues and conflicts and ends that I could not have forecasted at this point last year…ranging from people that I didn’t chalk up to being good friends who thought they had more meaning to people that I thought would be around forever who won’t be. But as I sat and messaged my former mentee back and forth, the idea began to take shape that if we make lists for significant others, why not friends? For me, right now, my students and my friends ARE my greatest ministry. I don’t have a husbae or even a husbae in training (at least not that I know of—feel free to surprise me, Lord!) How I am in the classroom and the kind of person that I am with my friends is what determines what else I get to steward. These relationships are currently what define me, what refine me, and what teach me standards, patience, and new ways to love. This is of heavenly importance, so it is crucial that I have a list for them as well so that I know when someone fits the bill. This is the current iteration, and there’s nothing to say that this won’t change:

This list is born of good times, heartache, lessons, successes and trials. I’m excited to keep adding and removing and trusting the process. I’d encourage you to make a list for any area that you are casting vision and see what blooms! Share these lists if you like!!

My new favorite worship song is “No Ordinary Worship” by Kelontae Gavin. This song got me thinking about the most dynamic form of worship: the lives we live. This poem was inspired by my life and by this song. Hope you enjoy!!

———————————————

My life is no ordinary worship.

It did not come sauntering in on the backs of

Dusty hymnals

Tried, true and marching toward glory

In doilies and sensible heels—no.

My life doesn’t always worship dutifully

On bowed knees beside my bed at night.

It doesn’t always remember to make Him first.

It tries to remember to be grateful for the hallelujah anyhow but sometimes it stutters

Tongue bitten and forced grace

Sometimes, my life’s worship is anything but ordinary.

My life’s worship doesn’t look like my grandmothers

Stately and dignified

With pantyhose, seams across the toes and a hat, always a hat

Lest the Lord see the Clairol Beeline Honey.

It doesn’t look like praying for the people who told me exactly where my 3/5ths of a person could sit

Though I wish my worship were that smooth, sometimes.

My life’s worship doesn’t look like my mother’s.

Childlike faith in the form of almost maddening contentment

Desire wrapped in fear presented with open arms.

It doesn’t look like serving the people who refuse to give me my just due with something like enthusiasm

Though I wish my worship were that open, sometimes.

This life of mine isn’t ordinary worship,

But it is testimony nonetheless

Testament to the power of a praying grandmother

And a resourceful mother too,

This worship is plan Bs that could survive the great flood

This worship is the cry of the sheep that strayed from the pack

The prodigal son

The one brought back

This worship is

Tattooed and pierced

Joyful and angry

Content and wanting.

This worship is asking why on the first day of college

And the answer becoming apparent 7 years and ; months later in the form of a BA blessing with my name on it.

My grandmothers sacrifice on it.

My mother’s tears on it.

This worship is depressed Eastern shore evenings

3 am with Oreos and BET After Dark

Wondering why I even bothered.

This worship is on Fulton just as much as it’s in Woodbourne

Worship enough for 5 year old boys and 13 year old girls

It is eminent on stages and forgotten behind scenes

This worship is so much deeper than it seems.

This worship is exhortation and corny jokes

Hugs and tears on shoulders.

It is “how did you even know” and “that kept me going today”…

This worship is love.

See, I keep meaning to type worship but my heart types a four letter word that my mind understood as a synonym for worship all along.

I have spent a lot of time on pages and in whispers talking about the exercise in beautiful heartbreak that teaching can be. Don’t let the Pinterest boards and Youtube videos fool you–it isn’t always pockets full of posies. Teaching is sometimes funky classrooms, 76 personalized handshakes (DAB!) and fun activities, true…just today, I ran “de-escalation stations” with my sixth graders and it was fun to watch them explore stress relief activities such as making their own bath salts and doing a basic 7 minute yoga routine. Teaching IS this. But teaching (at least for me) is also looming deadlines, absent assistance, frustration and what feels like abundant lack–of resources, of good news, and of progress. Sounds sanctimonious, but I sometimes feel like I am running solo on a treadmill and I cannot catch up to save my life. I look at acquaintances that teach in other districts where the biggest headache is parents lingering in the carpool line, and though I’ve committed (at least this phase of) my life to urban education, I flirt with the idea of a richer district, less jaded kids, etc. Then, I feel like an ogre. Its tight, but it’s truthful.

On days like this, however, I remember something that this woman named Didi said to me yearssss ago. I don’t remember the context, but she said something like “your words are divinely structured to bring peace and joy to people around you.” That’s literally one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me–and it’s also a charge to make sure that what comes out of my mouth builds up and doesn’t tear down. Teaching brings with it some “cuss applicable moments”, as Steve Harvey would say–I’d be lying if I said that every word out of my mouth is “joy to the world”…but as Steve also said “God ain’t done with me yet.”

I don’t always feel planted–like I am divinely structured, firmly rooted in the thing I am supposed to be doing. Earlier this week, I sat in front of my Crew and ground out angry tears because they weren’t meeting expectations–it’s enough to make you question yourself sometimes. But today, I felt planted, twice. And when I feel God move, I have to share.

A child at work had a medical emergency today, and it left a bunch of children feeling quite rattled and scared. I bent down to talk to a child who was in tears, and I heard another kid above me say “guys can we pray, because I’m worried!” Thus began a round robin of who was actually going to pray, since one kid turned into five…and finally one girl said “Ms. O, you pray, because we don’t know how.” Another said, “yeah, ’cause all I do is say grace!” So the five of us held hands and shoulders and we prayed for the young lady in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. My students know my beliefs, but I am careful not to dwell on them at school, lest I activate the church v state cries, but I’ve had students ask me to pray quietly with them before a test and now this–the fact that they know that they can ask this and I will respond means the world to me. Planted.

A few teachers were sitting in my homeroom this afternoon, and we were talking-laughing-playing music–kinda lesson planning, etc. A friend FaceTimed me, so I alternated between talking to her, listening to my coworkers, sashaying in my seat to the tune of my music and answering emails. Suddenly, the one across from me said “I love your joy. You are so happy.” (or something like that)… It was so out of the blue and I was so taken by surprise that I pointed at myself and she affirmed that she was speaking to me. The funny thing is, I wasn’t doing anything in particular, but she saw something and called it out of me–it’s been bouncing around my head all evening. I can be joyful FOR others even when I don’t realize that I am. Planted.

The Bible says this about being planted–

Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night. He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers. Psalm 1:1-3

I take this to mean that being planted doesn’t always feel great–there is digging and waiting and pruning involved, after all, but when you are planted in the right place and nourished by the right things, you will see rewards when rewards are meant to be seen. If the soil were completely wrong, then nothing would grow. That doesn’t mean that I’m supposed to stay in the same pot forever, but I have to trust that that Living Water hydrates even my dry seasons.

Basically, I bloom different.

Today, be thankful for being planted where you are–in the professions, the friendships, the places where you are. Search for the meaning. And recognize the divine structuring when you see it 🙂